


More Fire Than The Sun

by palecrepegold



Series: Cait Hawke [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Humor, Bad Jokes, Blood Magic, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Mage Rebellion, Post-Dragon Age II, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Rebellion, Red Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4096180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palecrepegold/pseuds/palecrepegold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hawke promised Anders they'd be fugitives together, she pictured a life on the run where their biggest concern would be avoiding detection from the Chantry. But when an old friend contacts Hawke with news of an impending catastrophe, she and Anders both gamble their safety in order to answer the call for help.<br/>In the process, they will become rebels, leaders, and a rallying cry against oppression heard across Thedas.</p><p>Story begins at the end of Dragon Age 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End is the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> One time I saw this piece of original artwork and thought, what if that was a whole multi-chapter story spanning the gap between DA2 and DA:I?  
> http://gemwillyart.tumblr.com/post/100024793435/the-real-reason-cullen-pushed-so-hard-for-templar  
> Also, this is the first fiction of any kind I've written in about four years, so I Have No Chill about it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke has a great deal of trouble standing.

She raised her hands above her head, and brought down the storm.

Or perhaps Hawke was the storm; her body throbbed in rhythm with the mana she sent into the sky to become destruction. Fighting through the Gallows had already left her bruised and aching, covered in crusted Templar blood and the thick green-black ichor of abominations. Had she really been fighting long enough for all that blood to dry? A night and a day, she realized, since Chantry dust had rained down on her in Lowtown, since she had seen all the weariness of ten years spent fighting for peace pushing down on Anders’ shoulders as he sat slumped on that empty apple crate. Beyond the point where time ceases to hold any real meaning.

The lightning she’d called sent shocks through the living statues before her, once made only of bronze but now something more than that. Something deeply unsettling, that had brought life back to the images of emaciated slaves who had likely found freedom only in death. Casting again, she tried to halt their lumbering gaits with a pulsing white-blue ring of gravitational force. When they’d first faced the Templars, such magic had been brutally effective, and her blood had sung with battle-lust as she made solid the air above them and brought it crashing down on their heads. Fist of the Maker, they called it, and so she shoved them into the ground in the name of the absent god they believed watched over them. But whatever animated these statues now ( _Demons? Red Lyrium? The sheer force of Meredith’s hate?_ ), they stood upright far more steadily than the Maker’s chosen defenders had.

 _Fuck me for flattering templars, but they were sure good at dying fast._ Hawke sent out another chain of lightning, feeling herself crackle with static energy from her toes to the ends of her hair. The statue closest to her finally staggered. She threw one arm behind her and then pitched it forward rapidly, and a mass of earth and rock flew past her to topple the thing at last. Once grounded, it ceased to move. _One less to worry about_. Had she said that, or merely thought it? Her throat felt as if she’d gargled shards of glass.

One last vial of lyrium in the pouch at her side. A dozen more statues, at least, and two looked to be near twenty feet tall. To her left, Merrill brought long roots bursting through the courtyard’s cobblestones, winding them around a statue’s legs until it was held fast. Carver’s maul brutally shattered one leg at the knee, and it was down as well. From behind her, she could feel the low thrum of Anders’ magic as he dealt out fire and ice, then the brighter burst of pure Fade as he called on Justice’s power to augment his own. Before her, Bianca’s staccato bursts added percussion to their battlesong, while Fenris’s tattoos flashed brightly as he countered a statue’s attack. It was hard to believe, in that brief harmonic moment, the misgivings so many of her friends held for each other, how unlikely it would be for many of them to ever speak again if not for the bond they shared through her. Just like a real family.

Her family, and her army. Three mages plus one spirit, three warriors, two rogues, and one Templar that had temporarily developed a conscience. It had to be enough. Hawke downed the lyrium, and the swift twist of nausea nearly brought her to her knees. The sight of Aveline smashing her shield into Meredith Stannard’s face helped keep her standing. _Can’t forget to take pleasure in the little things._

“Round them up where I can hit them with another storm!” This time, she’d definitely yelled it, using a old force magic trick to amplify the sound of her voice through the courtyard. Not much of a plan; bronze didn’t react as well to magical lightning as she could’ve wished. But it was something. They listened, and for the thousandth time Hawke was surprised by it. Who is the bigger fool, me or the fools that follow me? Bianca trilled again as Varric shot wave after wave of bolts at the statues’ legs. It worked: the statues herded themselves together, and Isabela’s smoke bombs kept them disoriented. A thousand years of watching this bloody courtyard hadn’t taught them a thing about tactics.

Hawke again stretched her arms upward and opened her mind to the Fade as widely as she could bear, then pushed the magic out of her body so hard that this time she didn’t merely throb with pain, she vibrated with it. The new storm grew larger, a dark purplish swirl of clouds emanating thick ropes of silvery lightning. More statues fell. But her mana was exhausted, her connection to the Fade tenuous and brittle. Moving swiftly, lest she overthink the action, she drew her dagger and cut a long gash down one exposed forearm. Her blood became more lightning, more rocks, a thick miasma of torment and horror as it ran down her body and flew from her hands.

More statues fell, while her friends seemed mercifully to still be standing. She’d drain her blood to the last drop to keep them that way, though the Maker would take her for his second bride before she’d say so out loud. Far afield, she saw Fenris ghost through the blades of a gate guardian before shattering it from the inside. The storm dissipated, but now only Meredith was left standing. It was almost over, despite the impossible odds they’d nearly won. Light-headed with rough joy and blood loss, Hawke took a step forward.

A wave of dizziness crashed into her, dancing black spots nearly eclipsing her vision. Oh. Darkness was calling to her, its voice so delightfully soothing. From somewhere beyond, past the ringing in her ears, someone was shouting. How wonderful not to have to care what they were saying. How much better everything would be once she let her legs give way and sank down to the stones beneath her.

Sharp panic gripped her through the haze. No, no, not so close to the end! Not so close to victory, not before she used the fruit of those last six months of secret lessons from Merrill to make Meredith Stannard’s blood boil in her veins. Retribution for every mage made Tranquil here, for every abuse the Knight-Commander had pretended not to see. For the memory of her father, for Beth, for the years spent running one step ahead of discovery by the Templars. _I will not fall! Not before I cut out that Void-damned bitch’s eyes and piss on her bloody corpse!_ She had to stay standing for that. She had to stay in control, to block out the rage demons that flocked to her now like sharks to chum. Her own rage would be more than enough.

Anders had called a part of himself Vengeance since before she’d met him, but today that name belonged to her.

The dots shrunk and faded, and Hawke could see that, wherever it had come from, the same wave of dizziness had affected everyone in the courtyard. Yet though they were each unsteady on their feet, when Hawke advanced on Meredith her friends followed suit. And after all the death they’d seen since their long trip through the Gallows began -- the abominations, the terrified mages cut down even as they knelt begging for mercy -- it was more than fitting that as they moved in, they surrounded the Knight-Commander in a near-perfect Circle.

But the woman before Hawke had long since passed any state where she would have the ability to notice and appreciate symbolic symmetry. Meredith’s eyes were frantic, bloodshot, her darting stare telegraphing rabidity.

Her mouth opened --“I will not be defeated!” -- and there was no time to point out the obvious, that she had been defeated already, that hers would always be the losing side because the arc of history bends toward freedom. No time for anything before she dropped hard to her knees and drove her red lyrium greatsword into the ground before her.

“Maker, aid your humble servant!”

Heat greater than any forge beat outward from the greatsword, and with it a blinding red light, forcing the companions to step back. A sound like a despair demon wailing, like the Veil being torn, seemed to come from the center of all that light and heat. It pierced Hawke straight through to the center of her mind, driving out all thought. She wanted to tear off her skin, plunge fingers through the sockets of her eyes and into the place in her head where the sound reached and claw it back out again. Before it could do to her what it had done to Batrand, to Meredith. _Fuck fuck shit fuck help no fuck help shit shit no no no no no please no Maker no_

 

Time passed, or didn’t. The sound was gone, though Hawke could not remember it ending. The heat and light lingered, but more and more faintly, and at their center…

A crude figure, life-sized but emaciated, held in a posture of genuflection. It was made of red lyrium.

So, the killing blow wouldn’t be Hawke’s, nor Anders’. Meredith had not so much been killed as scrubbed from existence, and that gruesome form left behind to mark the occasion. Even as she struggled back toward lucidity, Hawke felt the anger that had held her upright all that last long day sliding away, leaving behind a hollowness.

She looked at her companions, and saw the confusion and fear in their expressions. Whatever had happened, right there in front of them, it defied explanation. There were no words to make sense of it, to bridge the gap between the impossible and themselves and ground them again in reality. For a long moment they all simply at each other in silence.

 _It looks like I’m going to have to find another place to piss._ Fuck, that one better not have been out loud.

A sudden and hysterical cackle broke the silence. Varric dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around his sides, squeezing himself tightly, but the laughter wouldn’t be stopped. Tears streaming down his cheeks, face red as an apple, he laughed until the laughs became choking coughs that threatened to expel his internal organs. Hawke stared at him, slack-jawed.

She’d finally done it. It had taken seven years, but she’d finally broke Varric’s brain.

Merrill overcame her shock first, and made a move toward Varric, but Hawke waved her off and dragged herself to his side. To do what, she had no idea, but she couldn’t drive someone into madness and then let Merrill handle the fallout. Tentatively, Hawke reached a bloodied gauntlet out to rest on Varric’s head. That was a comforting gesture, surely? The reassuring weight of the hand of a friend, saying Hey, no worries, I’m with you now. That’s what people did, in situations like this one.  

Varric reached up and slapped her hand away. Well.

“Shit, Hawke, you...” he wheezed. At least, Hawke thought the hoarse noises he made sounded like those words. “You...after all that...how...to me? Look…. This!” He stretched his arms out expansively, and took a deep breath. “No one. Will ever. Believe. Any. Of. This.” He glared at her. _Maker, the man’s hysterical_. “Never. How can I. Write,” another gasp, “‘The Knight-Commander. Of Kirkwall. Burst into. UNHOLY FLAME. After crying out. To the Maker. To save his,” a cough, “Loyal servant.’” His glare sharpened, somehow. “There’s dramatic irony. And then. There’s _sacrilege_. It sounds. Ludicrous. So I have to. Go around. The rest of my life. Like this. Knowing everyone. Whoever hears this story. Will think I’m an. Even bigger liar. Than they already. Know. That I am. Now help me up.” Hawke obliged, raising an eyebrow. Or at least she thought she raised it; she could no longer feel much of her face. “You are a. _Terrible_. Hero. And Champion. And person. To put me through this. I’m done. No more stories about you. No more Tale of the Champion. I’m throwing that shit into the fire. And writing something _plausible_.”

“Bullshit,” Hawke began.

Templars seemed to burst forth from every corner of the courtyard. A dozen…no, twenty of them at the least. Somehow, Hawke hadn’t managed to kill them all, despite all the carnage she’d led through the Gallows since the fighting began. Were this lot all hiding under their beds for the last day? She snorted at the thought.

At least one of them had been in the earlier fighting, however. Knight-Captain Cullen had taken charge, directing his men to unsheath their swords and to surround Hawke and her party. Belatedly, she realized how long it had been since she’d last seen the man who had been her ally not thirty minutes prior. Apparently a whole afternoon of considering mages to be people like he was had put the man under too much mental strain.

“Should’ve kept my eye on you.” Hawke stepped in between her friends and Cullen’s sword-point, keeping one hand close to her sheathed dagger. If it came to an open fight, a smite would still be painful, but she could use her blood to cast through it. And facing a mage whose magic they couldn’t nullify would likely have half the templars there soiling their armor and running back into hiding. Even then, Hawke didn’t have the strength for more fighting, but she knew she could not let them cage her. Better to go down fighting than face the brand. If they managed to capture her, the blood magic would allow her to stop her own heart, even without an open cut. She wouldn’t let them turn the most famous apostate in the Free Cities into a Tranquil they could trot out whenever they needed to scare rebellious mages back under the Chantry’s yoke.

If she died, Varric would make her a martyr, and the voices crying out for mages to be free would grow louder. And her death was absolutely a possibility.

Some hours earlier, during a lull in fighting, she’d tried to talk to Anders about what it would mean if one of them were to die. That she’d want him to keep fighting for mages on her behalf, to keep living, to value his own survival. He heard what she said, but the idea that she would be the one to die rather than him was too much for him to handle at that moment. He’d squeezed her to his chest and whispered fiercely into her hair that he would die to keep her free. And there was no time to make him understand that keeping her from death was not always in his power. So she just held him tightly in return and hoped that what they’d really needed to say to each other was contained within that one embrace.

Hawke caught the Knight-Captain’s gaze. “So, our alliance is ended? And your friends here with their swords pointed at me, they’re to help get back to the status quo where we all pretend templars have any right to control mages?”

Cullen made no reply, and despite the still-bared sword, all she saw in his eyes was resignation.  

“Or are we done here, and me and everyone I’m with are free to get the fuck away from you?”

Cullen sighed and broke eye contact with her, but still didn’t speak. After a moment, he lowered his sword. The other templars followed suit.

“Right, then we’re leaving. If you come after us, I’ll kill you. And now you know how good I am at it.” _And how much I’ll enjoy it,_ her eyes told anyone who cared to look. She turned away from the templars and back towards her friends “Good news. We’re not dead, so drinks are still on me.”

“I think a barrel of rum might be able to take the edge off whatever the hell it was we just went through,” suggested Isabela. “ And it’s high time I start teaching Kitten how to drink like a pirate.”

“A barrel of wine’d be better. Something fruity and Orlesian. One barrel per person, that might be enough liquor to scrub my brain clean of the shit I’ve seen today.”

Fenris’ mouth curled upward into a half-smile. “I’m eager to test out your theory, Varric. With a strong red from Antiva, perhaps.”

“Fine! The drink of your choice, and as much as you need to drown yourself in. As soon as this place is behind us.” Hawke leaned hard onto her staff for support and began the slow walk through the Gallows’ gates.

Before she’d gone three steps, Anders was beside her with his arm wrapped around her waist. He took her staff and she leaned onto him instead. “We’re both alive,” he whispered, and he pulled her closer to him. “We are,” she agreed, her voice soft. “Alive, together, and free. I don’t think I need anything else.”

He laughed at that, and twirled a finger around one of the loose and blood-soaked braids now framing her face. “Perhaps a bath, love. Alive, together, free, and not covered in dirt or blood sounds appealing.”

“That sounds fair. If you scrub my back, I'll scrub yours.” He just smiled at that, and reached over with his free hand to take one of her own.

Whatever they thought of each other now, whatever would have to be said later, they started here. _My hand in your hand. We will be fugitives together._  

Carver walked up to her on her other side, and placed a heavy-gauntleted hand on her shoulder. “Sister.” Hawke waited a moment, then nodded. Maybe that was all that needed to be said. Together, they walked through the gate like that, with the rest of her friends following close behind. Even now, they followed her, bound together by her love of fools. Somehow, they had all survived, and they would not leave her to face the future alone. And it was enough.


	2. A Little Red Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke tries her hand at public speaking.

Their destination was the docks, but as if by silent agreement, the group halted five paces out from the Gallows’ gates where the view of the city was clearest. The Kirkwall they saw now would not be the same city as the one they had left just one day ago.  

It was as if the world outside the gates of the Gallows was painted only in shades of gray, from the endless pale slate of the cloud cover above to the choppy charcoal waters of Kirkwall Harbor below.  Across the harbor, Hawke saw plumes of dark smoke rising from Lowtown, silhouetted against the overcast sky. A dull cacophony reached her ears from across the water, but at that distance it was impossible to make out the origin point of any particular sound. On this day as all others, the harbor was framed by the giant statues of the Twins, who hid their faces behind their hands, blocking their gaze from the cruel sight before them.

She couldn’t blame them, really. All the horrors they must have born witness to, through the veil of centuries’ worth of mist and smoke, of tears and ash. But there was nothing for Hawke herself to hide behind, not today.

Beside her, Merrill’s eyes grew wider and wider as she stared at the city before them. “Oh no, no. Mythal's mercy. You don’t suppose any of that smoke is coming from the Alienage, do you? Because, so many of the buildings are made from wood, and they’re all quite rickety to begin with, and if just one house caught fire then soon so would the next one, and the next, and the next. When there’s a fire in the Alienage, we all come out and make a big long chain of people to carry buckets of water up from the harbor. Only it never seems the buckets do much good. And that’s when there aren’t demons and templars and things in the streets.” As she spoke, her voice raised in pitch, revealing that panic had her in its grips.

Isabela wrapped an arm around Merrill and pulled her close. “We can’t know what’s happening over there now, Kitten, but Aveline’s sent her big burly husband to Lowtown, along with a whole slew of city guards, to protect people in case something just like that happens. So let’s put our trust in tough, strapping Guard-Captain Aveline and her tough, strapping husband for now, hmm?”

Somewhere at the edge of her mind, Hawke was impressed to see how their relationship had developed, and how Isabela skillfully drew Merrill’s attention away from her fear with humor without belittling her distress. Sometimes it felt like everything changed so quickly, even people. Especially people.

Hawke frowned. The Alienage was next thing to a deathtrap, but the worst damage had been in Hightown, hadn’t it? Then again, even when the Qunari had rounded up the nobles and beheaded the Viscount during the siege of the city she’d thwarted, it was still the people of Lowtown who had seen their homes and livelihoods burned to the ground. It seemed like the Maker made sure the little people always bore the brunt of the highborns’ suffering for them.

Varric interceded, his voice all calm confidence. “With what we just did here Daisy, how many more mages and templars are left to stir up shit in Lowtown? I bet you most of the damage is just some panicking and some looting and some good-natured opportunistic backstabbing. You know, Tuesday.”

Aveline’s eyes were fixed on the city across the water, her expression grim. “There’s only one thing I’m sure of right now. And that’s that whatever state Lowtown is in, we’re better off going there than trying to get to Hightown.”

“What?! Why the Void not?” Hawke heard the peevish snap to her voice, but was well beyond caring.

“Listen, I need to go home. I’m tired, I’m filthy, definitely hungry, and possibly seriously wounded. Where the Void else am I supposed to go?”

Aveline sighed. “I don’t know, as yet. But people saw us with Meredith and Orsino in Lowtown. They saw you kill Templars after the Chantry explosion.”

“But I need to check in on Bodahn, and Orana, and my _bloody dog_!” Aveline was Ferelden, she had to understand about the dog.

“She’s right, sister. Who knows what kind of rumors are going through the city right now? And we have no idea what sort of mess Hightown is in.”

Damn it, Carver was supposed to be on her side now.

“It’s true, you just know most of those overstuffed peacocks are lying in wait to hit someone over the head with a silver candlestick,” quipped Isabela. “They didn’t get much chance with the Qunari, but they’re not likely to let another opportunity pass them by.”

“I’m sure I can handle my illustrious neighbors in a fight.” Hawke frowned. “I don’t see a problem. The templars are here, behind us. Cullen’s their highest-ranking officer now, and that man doesn’t currently have the wherewithal to order a tankard of beer. They’re in no shape to follow me.”

“It isn’t worth the risk, Hawke. At the moment, we don’t even know if your mansion still stands.” Anders’ grip on Hawke’s hand grew noticeably tighter at that. Andraste’s ass, he hadn’t taken into account that a giant explosion in the neighborhood might affect their home?

“Let me find Donnic first, and get a status report on the situation in the city from my guard.”

Before Hawke could continue her objections, Fenris broke in. “We have endured too much, to lose you to foolishness now.”

Well. Whether or not she was convinced, she was grossly outnumbered. She sighed. “Fine. So tell me what I’m supposed to do now, then.”

 _Do I even have to ask? What do we always do?_ She looked around the group, hoping someone else might have a worthwhile plan. Something clever, something to help keep them safe.

By now, she should have known better.

“...Hanged Man?” offered Varric.

Isabela shrugged. “Home sweet home. At least we’ll know it’ll still be standing. Even Anders’ fancy explosion can’t’ve done worse to the Hanged Man than it endures on a typical weekend.”

What else was there to say?

“Right. We’ll sail back to Lowtown, you’ll go to the Hanged Man to wait for me to return with the guard and a report on the current status of the city. And I mean it, you _wait there_ , all of you. You all need rest. You do not need to get into any more trouble.” Aveline’s voice and expression were both stern. Maker’s breath, sometimes that woman acted like she’d given birth to all of them herself, and hadn’t been much impressed by what they’d done with themselves since coming into the world.

“Not all of us need rest, Aveline. This little adventure hasn’t been much more trying than a typical trip to the Deep Roads, and it’s certainly been a lot shorter.” Carver stood up straighter and puffed out his chest a bit as he spoke. Anders snorted at the invocation of the Deep Roads and the the legendary endurance of Wardens, but quietly enough that only Hawke heard. “I’ll go with you to track down the guard. Unless you think this lot need supervision while you’re away.” _Arrogant ass_ , thought Hawke, before reminding herself that it was mostly a good thing that Carver was proud of himself and what he was doing in life. Mostly.

“People in Lowtown still put a lot of stock in the Wardens, particularly the Fereldans. Seeing that we have one in the city might do good to calm some fears. Fine, Carver, you're with me, and everyone else had better sit on their hands until we get back.”

Carver frowned, apparently expecting Aveline to accept his help in a way that was a bit more flattering. As it stood, it wasn't clear if Aveline was agreeing that she could use his help or planning to parade him around for the griffons on his armor. “Well. Right. We’re wasting time just standing here.”

“Calm down, Junior, you’ll be playing hero again soon enough.” Varric stepped over and patted Carver on his arm, as close to his shoulder as he could reach. “You heard the Warden, let’s ship out. Literally.”

The group headed towards the Gallows docks, but Anders still held Hawke’s hand, and he didn’t budge. Hawke turned and met his gaze; his eyes were entreating her, but for what, she was unsure. “Is this the right time to do...whatever it is you want to do?” she asked.

“Cait.” He paused, and Hawke shook her head. “No, Anders. No ‘Cait’. Later. When we have more than thirty seconds.” He sighed, then nodded. “Good. Just, stay close to me. I’ll keep doing the talking for us, with the rest of them. And when we’re really alone, we can figure out...all this.” Hawke waved her hand at the space between their bodies.

“All right, love. But, soon. Promise me it’ll be soon.”

“I promise. As soon as we can sneak away. But now we have to catch up with the rest of them.” She took his hand and started walking, and this time he followed. She held onto his hand tightly, hoping he understood what she meant by it. _You’re safe_ and _I’m here_ and _You haven’t lost me_ and _I’ll protect you, I always have_. Sometimes it was easier to say those things without speaking.

They caught up to the group and boarded the sloop Isabela had temporarily liberated to get them to the Gallows. The craft was small enough for Isabela to pilot by herself, and she trimly cut the waves across the harbor. The wind off the water had a bitter bite to it, and Hawke spent the short trip huddled with Anders near the stern. In normal times, she might’ve had a little fire spell to keep them all warm, but after all the magic she’d used in the fights, her head ached and bright lights danced before her eyes if she even thought about trying to connect to the Fade. There’d be no magic from her for some time, maybe days.

Anders took off his coat, now in a truly pitiful state of disrepair, and used it to cover them both like a blanket. For a few minutes, Hawke could feel herself on the edge of sleep, with her head buried into the crook of Anders’ neck. The little part of her mind that remained alert tried very hard to turn itself off, to surrender to temporary oblivion, but without any luck. The longest day of her life since her mother’s death refused to end just yet.

At Kirkwall’s docks, Hawke could see why everything had looked so gray from the Gallows.The docks was covered in a fine layer of ash, and a few chunks of the Chantry’s pale granite walls had been blown all the way out here. What must the rest of the city be like?

_I could’ve stopped him. I knew this was coming, in my heart I knew, but I didn’t want my comfortable life to end. Between the city and Anders, I chose myself._

No, fuck this, not now. She forced the thought back into her subconscious mind where it belonged. There'd be time enough for self-recrimination later. And who was she without a millstone of guilt hanging from her neck?

They moored the little ship, and Aveline and Carver separated from the group to begin their search for Donnic and the city guard. The rest of them made their way through the wreckage-strewn alleyways to Lowtown. Hawke forced herself to stare straight ahead and not seek out corpses as they walked. What good would it do now? But she couldn't ignore the scent of fresh-rotting flesh and voided bowels that intermingled with the ash-heavy air. They'd fought templars and abominations in these streets. Maybe what she smelled was the aftermath of her own always-rising body count.

Another thing to think about later. They'd reached their destination. Hawke swore they each sighed in relief when they found the Hanged Man relatively undamaged and the noise of a crowd coming from beyond its door.

A door they barely managed to shove open, displacing all the representatives of the great unwashed packed in front of it. The Hanged Man swarmed with so many people they had trouble squeezing themselves in. Even during First Day revelry, or after Funalis mourning left off and everyone needed to drown their sorrows, Hawke had never seen the place so full.

The patrons represented every possible stage of inebriation, all the way to dead drunk and curled up in the corner. The smell of stale piss and beer was overtaken by the smell of fresh piss and unwashed bodies. Yet despite all they’d clearly drunk, the crowd felt tense, and more than one man sported a fresh wound she doubted they’d gotten at the bar.

Well, doubted might be too strong a word.

If Hawke and her friends had been just some more Lowtowners looking for a drink, they might have been able to push through the crowd. GIven the circumstances, they might’ve even made it carrying weapons and covered in blood. But Hawke had spent far, far too many nights at the Hanged Man to not be recognized by the regulars. She hadn’t been in the room a full sixty seconds before the shouts of “Oi, lookit! The Champion’s ‘ere!” started. And as soon as the first shout was heard, the whole room picked it up. After all, Hawke knew, yelling and drinking were cozy bedfellows.

“Champion! Whaz happenin’ out there? Is it them Qunari back to take the city?”

“Idjit, you seen any Qunari out there? It’s demons, is what it is.”

“Raif, you wouldn’t know a demon from the hole in your arse!”

“Champion, you gotta save us!”

“My cousin sez it’s them blood mage kings from Tevinter, come back to make us all slaves! She seen ‘em inna street with big chains and shite!”

“You’re all daft! The Divine ‘ersself done ‘ad the Chantry blown to bits cuz the Gran’ Cleric wuz tryin’ ta have ‘er arsarsinated! Swear on Andraste’s tits!”

“Whuzzamadda wit’ allayuz...alla yuz...dumfucken’ idears?”

Another minute or two of this, and fistfights would start to break out over which drunk had the more trustworthy cousin, but she doubted the crowd would let her be until she answered them. And, after all, didn’t they deserve to know what was had happened?

A version of what had happened, anyway. Something that could buy them a bit more time.

Hawke handed her staff to Anders, keeping her face turned from him in order to avoid any question in his eyes.

She felt dizzy as she stood fully upright, and realized that the cut down her arm from her fight with Meredith had reopened and was bleeding slowly but steadily. _I can use this._

She shoved her way over to the nearest table and climbed atop it. Instead of yelling for the crowd to quiet itself, she stood with her battered body tall and held her hands above her head, drawing from the power her own blood still had in abundant supply. A small fireball ignited in each of her hands.

That little trick certainly got their attention. Conversation stopped almost immediately. Good. It was time to put all the oratory and bull-shittery she’d learned at Varric’s side to good use, and play the role of “Champion of Kirkwall.”

“My friends, good people of Lowtown! I will tell you what has happened, and I swear I tell it true! The Chantry explosion was caused by none other than Knight-Captain Meredith Stannard, and this very day the Maker has struck her down!”

Every voice in the room was shouting after that. Faster than she would’ve imagined, Fenris was at the table trying to pull her down by the leg. “Hawke, no,” he growled. But what else could she do? Too late to turn back now. She kicked herself free of his grip and began again, louder.

“Quiet down, for the love of Andraste! I know the story I have to tell will sound impossible, but I saw it all with my own two eyes. You all know that for three years, the Knight-Commander has blocked any attempt for our city to find a new Viscount. She has ruled instead, and used the Templars as her own army, in defiance of Chantry law. But, though Grand Cleric Elthina did not condemn her, she also did not allow Stannard free rein.”

Hawke paused briefly to take in the mood of the room. Every eye was on her, and the only movement she could see was the journey of beer mug or whiskey glass to mouth.

“The Divine Herself learned of the Knight-Commander’s bid for power. I learned from none other than the Left Hand of the Divine that Her Holiness considered an Exalted March on Kirkwall. Val Royeux was moving against her. Her days as ruler were numbered. And Grand Cleric Elthina had acted against her. Stannard was mad, and believed all who opposed her to be blood mages or their thralls. The Chantry explosion killed her opponent, and created chaos that would allow Stannard use her templars to take the city in truth. Then, she could end the life of every mage in the Gallows and every mage who lived outside its walls.”

Some murmuring, now. Was she losing them? Had she let the telling go on too long? Hawke knew most common folk had never known a mage, and believed what they Chantry had taught them--that magic was to be feared, that mages were something less than human. Yet she stood before them as their savior, a free mage who had protected them from invasion. And she doubted no few of them had found their way to Anders’ clinic, either for their own ailments or those of family. She hoped it was enough to get them on her side and keep them there. Outrageous blasphemy or no.

“I stood before her as the Chantry burst apart. I heard her declare the Right of Annulment, the right to kill every mage down to the smallest child. I heard First Enchanter Orsino beg for the lives of those children before her. And I heard her refuse him.”

She remembered Beth at nine, standing as tall as she could manage, fiercely proud when the cold finally came from her hands when she called it. After that, she liked to put her icy hands on Hawke's neck and then run away laughing as though she'd just played the world's best practical joke.

She imagined Beth at nine, skewered on a Templar's sword. Fuck a world that would let that happen.   

“I and my companions went to the Gallows to stop her. She set her templars against us as well as the mages, and many died, but we prevailed. Yet when faced with defeat, the Knight-Commander refused to yield. She stood before us and called on the Maker to aid her and show her favor, and she was struck down in unearthly flame. She died by no mortal hand, I swear it. Meredith Stannard brought chaos and death to Kirkwall, and for it the Maker took her life.”

The room was utterly silent. Did they believe her? Did they trust her?

From the back of the room, she heard a voice whisper: “Well holy shit.”

Time for the clincher, then.

“The story is a dark one, but make no mistake. We have fought a great battle for Kirkwall, and we have won! No one, not man or woman, not Templar or Qunari, can defeat this city. So raise your glasses for Kirkwall!”

“For Kirkwall!” they bellowed. Someone handed her a mug of ale, and she drained it in one long gulp as the crowd cheered. She grabbed the mercifully intact coin purse from her belt and threw it to Corff at the bar.

“Celebrate my victory with me! For the rest of the night, you all drink on the Champion’s tab!”

“TO THE CHAMPION!” they roared. Corff and Norah looked at her, then at each other, and started filling mugs and passing them out amongst the crowd.

Hawke got down from the table, her head swimming. The crowd swarmed her, as every man and woman in the place tried to pat her hard on the back or press a fresh mug of ale at her in congratulations. She was already light-headed from the first mug, and the blood loss, and she was quickly losing the adrenaline spike that had sustained her during her speech. _But, in for a copper, in for a sovereign._ Hawke gulped down her second ale with gusto. It was lukewarm and bitter, but in that moment seemed like the best thing she’d ever drank.

A large man near her seemed to be indicating he wanted to hoist her up on his shoulders when her friends found her and started pulling her to the back of the bar toward Varric’s rooms.

“You’re insane, do you know that? Actually, truly insane. More insane than that, even. Double, triple the insanity of a run-of-the-mill crazy person.”

At that point, Hawke wasn’t even sure which of her friends was speaking. It could have been any of them.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing! I keep editing/tweaking these chapters after I post them, because I'd forgotten how hard it was to let a thing be finished when what's on the page doesn't perfectly match what's in your mind.  
> 


	3. Rags and Feathers

Hawke made it a full five steps into Varric’s apartment before she was on her hands and knees, retching out both ales into a wastepaper basket as quickly as she’d taken them in. The mixture of sour ale and stomach acid burned all the way up from her stomach to her throat. _This fucking day._ She let herself fall to the side and pulled her knees up to her chest. Anders quickly crouched down beside her, rubbing her back in comforting circles. _When do I get to the end of this fucking day?_

Varric filled a glass of water from the pitcher on the sideboard, then walked over to Hawke and poked her gently with his booted foot. “Hey, lightweight, sit up and drink this. And next time, try to remember that a wastepaper basket is, surprisingly enough, not an ideal receptacle for puking into.”

Hawke glared at him, but sat up and took the cup. “Plenty of paper in there to absorb the liquid. Writing not going well, Tethras?” Varric rolled his eyes at her. “If we’re going to get into bad stories, Hawke, let’s start with the one you just told out there.”

Hawke sipped the water slowly. Fenris, Isabela, and Merrill had gathered around the long table that made up the center of the apartment, and were busy at finally removing their armor and the upper, more blood-soaked layers of their clothing. For a moment, the clink of buckles and snap of leather straps being pulled free dominated all other sounds in the room.

“I bought us time,” Hawke finally replied. “What really happened, more or less, will be out there soon enough. For now, we’re heroes, not heretics who need to be chased out of the city with torches and pitchforks. And I think my story was just about as good as anything you could’ve come up with in a pinch like that.”

Varric scoffed. “Freckles, you wound me. Lying is an art, one that takes practice. If it’d been me up there, the story I told them would be tight enough that they’d believe it even with a dozen eyewitness reports contradicting it. Your story won’t hold much water past when that crowd sober up.”

“Well, then we’re lucky Hawke decided to throw away so many sovereigns on the noble task of keeping that crowd drunk,” offered Isabela from across the room.

Varric frowned. “That gold won’t last all that long, Rivaini. You saw the crowd out there. Ten to one, the sober half of Lowtown’s already heard the ale’s running free at the Hanged Man. If there’s one thing people like more than getting drunk when times are tough, it’s getting drunk when times are tough without having to pay for it.”

“We only need stay here until Aveline and Carver return,” pointed out Fenris. “As for a truer version of events being told, we have perhaps until the Knight-Captain and his men have recuperated enough to leave the Gallows. If he is not immediately believed, we will have until Sebastian returns from Starkhaven, with or without the army he expects to find there.” He looked at Hawke pointedly and raised an eyebrow.

“Fuck Sebastian,” she replied eloquently. “And it’s, what, five days’ ride to Starkhaven? More? Not a short distance. There’s time.”

Fenris shrugged. “The distance is not important. He is a prince, his version of events will be believed. And perhaps you plan to be long gone from Kirkwall before he can return. But you have spread the tale of all of our involvement in this mayhem. And when you are not found here, we will be sought out next.”

Hawke frowned. “That was always going to happen anyway. No one in this city shits without wanting to know what I think about it. And unless you have a way to erase the last six years, everyone knows you’re my people.”

“Must we argue about this now? What about what's happening outside this building?" Merrill broke in. "I know what Aveline said, but I shouldn’t be here. The Alienage is my home, and it’s on fire. I can’t just sit and do nothing to help my neighbors.”

“Sh, you don’t know that, dear heart. And one woman can’t put out a house fire alone, not even if she is a mage,” replied Isabela, stroking Merrill’s arm.

“You might be right, Daisy, but the truth is the whole city could be going to shit out there and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. Not in the condition we’re in. One hard poke in the chest by some looter and we’d be knocked flat on our asses.” Varric’s tone as he spoke was grim.

The first tear rolled down Merrill’s face at that, and more threatened to follow. “I hate this,” she whispered. “I’m so tired.”

Isabela planted a light kiss on Merrill’s forehead. “Varric’s right, Kitten. You can’t fix everyone’s problems, especially not in a place like Kirkwall. Half the time, we’re all insane to even try. Now’s the time to know our limits.”

“Foolish or not, it is our duty to protect the weak,” countered Fenris.

Isabela shook her head. “Wrong. My first duty is to keep my hide more or less intact. I _like_ my hide.”

Varric cleared his throat. “Let’s save the philosophy for another time, gang. Though, speaking of duty, we should talk about the bronto in the room…” His voice trailed off, but he directed his gaze toward Hawke.

“What are you talking about?” she replied, but Varric only looked at her, expectant. It was Fenris who broke the silence.

“He means the mage. What is our duty regarding him? Something must be done.”

Hawke instinctively grabbed for Anders’ shoulder, burying her fingers in the feathers and gripping him tightly. Anders sat up straighter at Fenris’s words, and spoke with a voice full of scorn. “ _Your_ duty? What do you think gives you the right to decide anything that happens to me?”

“Eat nug shit, Fenris. You’re not doing a damn thing with him or about him. Any of you.” The color rose in Hawke’s face as she spoke.

“Hey, hey, no need to get hostile. We’re just talking here,” Varric said, holding up a palm to Hawke and another to Fenris.

“The fuck we are.” She could hear her heart beating, thump-thump-thump, and her grip on Anders’ shoulder grew tighter with each beat, until she realized with a start that he was wincing. Across the room, Isabela looked uncomfortable, while Merrill’s face displayed both anxiety and pity.

Fenris’s brows were drawn together in frustration, but his words were measured. “You cannot ignore reality, Hawke. This question must be asked, and the answer does not affect only you and the mage.”   

“The reality is, if any of you try anything I’ll wear your guts for garters.”

Varric sighed. “Could you stop snapping like a feral dog and actually talk to us?”

“Calm down, Hawke, you know you don’t even wear garters.” Isabela’s smile was painfully forced. “Last I knew, your smallclothes were more conservative than my grandmother’s.” But her attempt to defuse the tension in the room fell flat.

His exasperation was clear in Varric’s voice. “People died because of what he did. Regular people, who didn’t do a damn thing to deserve it except be around the Chantry at a bad time. You don’t just walk away from that, Hawke.”

“Guess what? He does. And I don’t need to justify it to any of you. How many lives have we taken, because we got a job, because they were hired by one guy and the guy who hired us didn’t like him? No one in this room has the moral authority to judge him.”

At her words, the temperature in the room seemed to drop precipitously. Hawke was incredulous. Did they all really still think they were good? That when the knife slipped, the blade swung too slowly, they’d be gathered up into the Maker’s arms? _Bloody fools, going through life with blinders on._ As she grew angrier, small black spots began to crowd her vision. She shook her head, but they didn’t dissipate completely.

“Don’t shake your head at us. Our jobs are different, Hawke, and you know it. Anyone who works as a merc knows the risks, and they’re generally not, oh I don’t know, _defenseless Chantry sisters_.”

Isabela sighed. “What good will the explosion even do, in the end? People fight, and people die, and the world continues on as it was. One person can’t change that, unless you really think Anders just pulled an Andraste and in a thousand years the Chantry will be worshipping him.”

Merrill turned to face the other woman. “So, you believe that everything we do is pointless? That the world would be the same whether we were in it or not?”

“What I’m saying is, all you can control is your own life. Focus on what’s in front of you. Don’t go out and invite the world to crush you like an ant under its bootheel.”

“Didn’t I just say this isn’t the time for big philosophical discussions on the meaning of life, Rivaini?”

“You all want to keep talking, fine, but guess what? Anders stays with me, and we go wherever the fuck we want after this, and now would be a good time for you to start getting used to that.” She pushed a stray strand of hair out of her face, and found that her brow was slick with sweat.

“And stop acting like I haven’t pulled every one of you out of shit just about this serious. Danarius. The Arishok. Marethari. Bartrand.” Her head was swimming. _This is Feynriel in the Fade all over again. Trusted them with my life, and this is how they trust me back?_

The room was hot, too hot. She felt like she was choking. “I need some air.” _Mouth tastes like vomit, body feels like broken glass. Why won’t this fucking day end?_

“Shit, Hawke, fine, we’re done talking, but you look like hell. You’re not going anywhere right now.”

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do.” But the room was spinning, and she was spinning with it. Her legs felt like they were filled with water instead of muscle. She dropped to one knee, and felt Anders’ arms wrap around her and hold her steady. Too late. She tried to tell him that, to say anything at all, but nothing worked anymore. The last thing she saw before everything went black was his eyes, warm like raw honey and creased in concern. For a time, she knew nothing else. 

*  *  *  *  *

Hawke was made of stone, and always had been. Each limb, every feature, was carefully chiseled, and immensely heavy. She couldn’t open her eyes because they’d never been made to open, and her mouth was sealed shut forever. Her ears caught sounds but they came through muddled. The sculptor must not have drilled the ear-holes deeply enough. No matter. What did a stone woman need to hear for? All stone needed was to accept its nature, to endure time and drift in its stillness. Nothing out in that world could compare with the natural serenity gifted to those beings made from the earth itself.

Hawke accepted this. Still, the sounds continued, and seemed to be growing louder. Slowly, she began to sense the presence of light, filtered through her thin eyelids. Weak things, fleshy things. She grumbled, and was surprised to feel the vibration of it in her throat. _Damn, damn, damn._ It wasn’t real. She was going to have to wake up.

“Coming around, love?” _No_ , she thought, but it was a lie. She felt a hand brush back her hair from her forehead, and pressed her face into it. “Mmpfh,” she replied. The hand stayed, its thumb tracing the arc of her eyebrow over and over. It was a warm hand, dry, with elegant long fingers. As familiar as breathing. She smiled. _Anders_. His caress made her feel warm, almost golden. He was with her, which meant she was finally home, didn’t it?

“I wonder if anyone who only knows your public demeanor would believe what a positive glutton you are for being pet,” Anders said lightly. “I’m not sure I quite believe it myself.”

“Don’t ruin the moment,” she replied, eyes still closed.

There was a gentle rasp of chapped lips and unshaven beard, planted square between her eyebrows. “Never.”

A line of verse, taught to her by her father as she sat on his knee as a child, floated upwards from the depths of her mind.

Here he lies where he long’d to be;

Home is the sailor, home from the sea

And the hunter home from the hill.

But that wasn’t quite right. It sounded so peaceful, but the words pushed away the golden feeling and whispered to her instead of a calm much deeper than the one she had found lying there with Anders at her side. Deeper, and solitary, and very cold.  

They weren’t home, this wasn’t safety. The events of the last two days, what had happened before she collapsed, it all came swarming back. _He betrayed me, they betrayed me._ No, that wasn’t right, it wasn’t that simple. Hurt wasn’t the same thing as betrayal.

She tried to push the thoughts out of her head, and opened her eyes.

Anders sat cross-legged next to her on the bed, looking perhaps as tired as she’d ever seen him. When their eyes met, he pulled his hand back from her face almost guiltily.

For the first time in longer than she cared to think about, she looked at his face and paid attention to what she saw, rather than what her memory told her she should see.

The last six months had aged him; his cheeks looked thinner, the lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened. Yet somehow he also looked more resolute, more defined, as if the barrier of his body was thinning to allow more of his soul to shine through. It frightened her, a bit, that she had kept herself blind to this transformation while it was occurring.

Hawke noticed that at one temple his dark blonde hair was shot through with a streak of silver.

She reached up and wrapped the strands around her finger. “You’re going to look quite rakish,” she observed.

“Hmph, could’ve sworn I already did,” he replied, in a tone of mock-offense.

“Possibly. You look better than you did before I passed out.” It was true, his face was scrubbed clean and his hair was damp and combed. The collection of rags and leather that made up his usual wardrobe were heaped in a corner, and he wore instead a long tunic and loose trousers. Neither quite fit, but it was all clean and in good condition, it was a secret pleasure of hers to see him dressed so.

He pinched the fabric of the tunic and rubbed it between his fingers. “On loan from Isabela, if you can believe it. She has quite a collection of ‘misplaced’ garments from some of her closer friends, it seems; she dropped off something for you as well.”

“She did? When was that?”

“Quite awhile ago. You’ve been out for hours, love; the shape I’m in, I couldn’t do much for you in the way of healing. How’s your head?”

 _Never had any complaints._ “Fine, I think. Hours, is it? What have I missed?”

“Well, after your impressive collapse, everyone was a bit...frazzled. We put you up on the bed and I’ve stayed here to watch you. Isabela and Merrill somehow managed to take Fenris back to Isabela’s room to get cleaned up and rest. I think they were a step away from dragging him out by his hair. Varric washed up and went out to the common room, claiming he was ‘nervous as shit’ and it was time to start drinking. And we haven’t yet heard from Carver or Aveline, which is a bit concerning. Those are the major events, I believe. Feel well enough to sit up for me?”

She nodded, and he helped her upright.

He’d stripped off her leathers while she slept, but she was still wearing the undershirt and leggings she’d had on beneath them. Both were so stiff with dried sweat she felt they’d be able to stand up on their own after she removed them. She smelled like an unpalatable combination of raw onions and strong vinegar. _The glamorous life of the scion of House Amell and the Champion of Kirkwall._ At least he'd also taken the opportunity to suture the gash on her forearm while she slept, in the same neat linked stitches that repaired all the tears in his clothes. 

A burst of dizziness hit her as she tried to hold herself upright without Anders' assistance. “Mm, head feels a bit funny now.”

“You didn't hit your head, so it's likely because you haven’t eaten in a dog’s age. Lucky for you, Varric brought out the emergency rations.” He pointed towards the central table, where sat the remnants of what must have once been a heroic amount of dried sausages, hard cheese, and harder bread. “Though you won’t be the first to get at it, of course. Stay here, I’ll grab you a plate. Just be careful about getting crumbs on Varric’s bed.”

“If I do, he’ll have to find some way to live with it.”

Anders padded back from the table on bare feet, carrying a plate of food and a clay tumbler of watered wine. “For your head,” he said, handing her the cup. She swallowed a gulp of it, then dunked in a piece of dry bread and ate that. Slow and steady. But at the first bite of cheese, her hunger hit her full-force and she was lost to it. Cheese, sausage, bread, all in her mouth, with the watered wine on hand to keep her from choking. Amused, Anders brought her a larger plate as she finished the first. She slowed down a bit for that, and gestured to Anders that he should eat with her. For a few minutes, they ate in companionable silence, like two starving wolves from the same pack.

When the food was gone, Hawke placed her hands on her belly and sighed appreciatively. “I feel halfway human again.”

“Let’s see what we can do about the other half.” Anders went to Varric's washstand, and brought the pitcher and bowl, washcloth, and bar of soap back to Hawke.

“All right, up with you. Just stand there and I’ll take care of the rest.” 

Anders’ movements as he peeled off the remainder of Hawke’s clothes were brisk. “Arms up!” and there went the tunic. “One foot out, now the other” and he removed her smalls and leggings together. “Water’s going to be cold, I’m afraid. I couldn’t channel fire right now if my life depended on it.” Fire was always harder for him to reach, and more difficult for him to control. Anders dunked the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and rubbed the soap into it with gusto.

“Not at all? No help from Justice?” Anders' closer connection to the Fade through Justice had always helped him bounce back from exhausting his magical reserves faster than Hawke did. She'd taken it for granted that he was able to pull his weight in any fight and then patch everyone up afterward.

“No help from Justice,” he affirmed. “He’s...distant, since the fight at the Gallows. It feels like there's a knot in the back of my mind, pulling in on itself. Like someone put a cork in my connection to the Fade." He was silent for a moment, washcloth temporarily forgotten in his hand. The implications of his words was worrying.

He collected himself and began working her over with the soapy rag. "I think he needs--we need--to figure out what it all means. What comes next. While I was planning, preparing everything, there was no division between us. Everything seemed so clear. But now..." He let the sentence trail off, rinsed and wrung out the cloth, and applied himself to the next stage of Hawke’s sponge bath with extra vigor.  

“Mind the bloody bruises, will you?” she exclaimed, though to be fair as far as she could tell more of her looked bruised than didn’t. He snorted. “Don’t be a baby, I’m almost finished.” Hawke scowled; when she was seriously hurt, he doted on her, but when it came to smaller injuries he was much the same no-nonsense doctor he was with any patient in his clinic. He took a dry towel and rubbed her down a second time, appraised her with a critical eye, then nodded. The wash-water didn't bear description.

He handed her the clothes Isabela had left for her, and she smiled. “These actually are mine. That thief kept them. And I rather like this tunic, too.” Isabela had also provided what was likely the most matronly lingerie at her disposal; they always had disagreed strongly about whether smallclothes should be attractive or practical. She dressed as quickly as her battered body would allow, in a dark green tunic over a plain linen undershirt, black leggings, and thick woolen stockings. Simple clothes, simple woman.

Anders was quiet while she dressed, and for a moment they both were still, saying nothing. “Well. You’re clean, clothed, and fed now. We’re alone, it’s relatively quiet. So we should probably...talk?”

 _No_ , she thought, _Not yet, I’m terrified_. Why did this scare her so much? “Right. You start.”

She sat down at the table. Anders pulled out a chair for himself, then pushed it back in without sitting. He paced the length of the room, and Hawke could see him squeezing his fists so that the nails pressed into the soft skin of his palms. Her handle on her own nervous energy wasn't much better, though she managed to stay seated. “There’s so much that I don’t know where to begin. You know why I had to do it. You know what was at stake if I did nothing. And someone had to be the face of it, to show the world the Chantry’s hypocrisy. Everything that happened to me since I escaped the Circle for the last time had led me there. But not you. You built a life, you have a future. I couldn’t take that from you.”

Hawke shook her head. “That’s not the point. Not really.” She stopped for a moment; the words were slow in coming.“You knew I want mages to be free almost as much as you do. Being a mage, the daughter of an apostate, that’s been my whole life. You couldn’t doubt that my conviction was sincere. And If I knew, I could’ve helped. Could’ve planned, been ready for it. Instead I just knew something was wrong, because of how you tried to put distance between us. And I let you do it. That part’s on me.”

She poured another mug of watered wine from the pitcher on the table and drank it in one long gulp, then looked around for something stronger. Nothing. Hawke sighed, and began again.

“Worst thing isn’t that, though. It’s that you gave me that choice. To support you, or run you off, or kill you. Like there was any way I could do that. Share a bed with you for three years and then plant a knife in your back.” Suddenly it was too much to keep looking at him like this was a normal conversation. Like she was just talking about the weather. She dropped her head and covered her face with her hands. _Slow, slow, pick your words carefully, don’t break down._ “You act like there’d be any kind of life for me in a world that didn’t have you in it.” Her voice was muffled.

He said nothing, but if Hawke had been looking at him she would’ve seen the water gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“Which makes me think, maybe you didn’t believe it. That this was until the day we die. Not just you. Both of us.”

“Oh, Cait…” and behind the tears that were falling freely his voice was tender. He dropped to his knees before her and gently pulled her hands away from her face. She squeezed her eyes closed tight, willing herself not to cry. He held her hands cupped in his. “I believed you. I did. But I thought…”

A knock on the door. Three smart raps, neither soft nor aggressive.

“Andraste’s knickers, what timing. Hey! You at the door! Fuck off, will you!” Anders shouted.

The three raps came again. Hawke pushed her chair back away from Anders and stood up. “It could be Carver, or Aveline, or someone they sent.  Something important.” He nodded, still teary, and she went to the door and opened it.

Past the room’s threshold, the hallway was boisterous and loud, full of just about as many sloppy, roving drunks as Hawke had expected. But the woman who stood before her was quite composed. She was dressed in a neat and well-tailored dress, her blond hair carefully pulled back from her face. Rather a pretty little face, one she knew she had seen before, but where?

“Messere Hawke?”

“Who are you, and what do you want here?”

“Apologies, messere, for intruding on your rest. But I have information you will want to hear. You have often been a friend to the little people of this city, and now it seems you may need a Friend yourself.”

The woman smiled, though her eyes remained sharp. Hawke stepped back to allow the woman to pass into the room. She was careful to lock the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is bad but it's done, four months after I posted the last chapter.  
> The poem quoted in part in this chapter is "Requiem" by Robert Louis Stevenson. I imagine Malcolm Hawke as a man of letters, considering how long he lived in the Circle and how little there is to do there except read.  
> 


	4. No Rest for the Weary

The woman walked past Hawke with the soft steps and measured gait of a lifelong rogue. Despite her mild, respectable appearance, her movements made it easy to imagine her hidden in some convenient shadow, drawing a long blade when the moment was right. Hawke wondered just how many daggers she’d find if she were to search the woman now. But that would hardly be a polite way to treat someone who’d come to her offering assistance and information, cryptic or no.

Still seated at the table, Anders’ face was a red-eyed and ruddy mess. He never had been as good at keeping in the tears as she was. He looked surprised to see Hawke return with a stranger, and quickly wiped at his eyes with the cuff of one shirtsleeve. Her heart twinged at the sight of him so undone. Sometimes, it still felt like a new development, that he felt comfortable doing so. From their first meeting, he had been all brash arrogance covering up raw sensitivity, pushing her and all others back. “ _Little girl_ ,” he had sneered, and she had reacted calmly only because she was torn between slapping him in the face and simply turning and walking out of the clinic. Twelve hours later, she had found herself crouched down beside him in the dirt, awkwardly rubbing circles on the small of his back as his body shook silently and a steady river of tears cut through the blood and dirt covering his face. It had taken years before he could let her see him cry without wrapping his heart back up in thorns afterward. Waiting for him to open himself to her had felt like the first time in her life she had truly practiced patience. 

He moved to stand, but the woman waved him down and pulled out a chair for herself at the long table. She had manners enough to not draw attention to the chaos of the room: the remnants of food that looked as though a pack of feral dogs had torn through it, six people’s armor lying in heaps where it had been shed, the sharp smell of Hawke’s ale-filled vomit still wafting out from Varric’s wastepaper basket. Then again, the woman had been making the Hanged Man her headquarters for as long as Hawke had been coming there; likely she’d seen a fair sight more blood and crumbs within the walls of this tavern during all those years.

Hawke sat down across the table from her, and turned to Anders. “This is…” she began, then stopped. She still didn’t have a name for the woman, and more importantly, she had no idea what the woman would inevitably want from her. She’d suspected that even as she took the woman’s coin after each time she routed another gang of roving thieves and cutthroats from Kirkwall. There was an agenda that she wasn’t privy to, one that was surely more complicated than rewarding a dangerous job once it was completed. 

“A friend,” the woman interjected smoothly. She extended a graceful hand towards Anders. “You can call me Jenny, if you like. We’ve met before in better circumstances, Healer. I have more than one friend that still plays in this city, and others, due to your efforts.” 

Anders took her hand lightly, but his expression was wary. “I don’t believe you went by Jenny then, did you?”

She smiled. “Different names for different times. I imagine a man calling himself Anders can sympathize, can’t he?” Anders’ eyes widened and he quickly drew back his hand. Hawke frowned. _What does this woman know?_ He had told her almost no one since the Circle had known Anders wasn’t his given name, and he had made his last escape from that prison nearly a decade past. The last person to speak the name aloud to him was his own mother. The stranger clearly had a great deal of knowledge at her disposal, and Hawke felt uneasy with the way she chose to use it.

Anders opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, and did his best to regain his composure. When he spoke, his voice was airy, almost jocular. “Glad to be of service, I’m sure. And which friends would those be?” he queried. 

“Oh, I have many friends. All sorts of people who lead respectable and law-abiding lives. And a few that don’t, of course.”

His eyes narrowed a bit further. “Of course.” Hawke could almost see his mind working through the list of usual suspects: Coterie, Carta, spies for nobles and the Chantry and even the more prominent merchants. Darktown was a beacon from them all, and so Anders had treated them all. His clinic had held an informal status as a neutral zone during the more turbulent gang wars. Under Anders’ scrutiny, Jenny’s smile began to seem vulpine, almost threatening. Hawke wondered briefly if it had been a mistake not to slam the door in the woman’s face. 

“You didn’t come here to talk about your social circle. You said you had information,” Hawke pointed out. 

In an instant, Jenny’s smile was all calm beatitude once again. “Quite right, of course. As I mentioned, I have information for you. And perhaps an offer.”

Hawke snorted. “I’m in no position to take any work right now. I think that’s obvious.”

“I am aware of your present circumstances, of course. This offer is not like what help you’ve given us before. But, information first.” Jenny rested her elbows on the table and leaned a bit forward. “Some good, and some bad. Which would you like first?”

“Bad,” she replied, at the same moment Anders said “Good.” She glanced at him. “Well, isn’t it about time for good news?” he asked.

Hawke shrugged. “Fine. Good first.” She crossed her arms and leaned back.

“Your estate in Hightown appears undamaged by the explosion, according to my information. And your servants seem to be alive and unharmed.”

The words shouldn’t have made her feel so relieved, but they did. It was unverified information, from a stranger, but her heart sat a bit easier in her chest. 

“And how do you know that, exactly?” 

Jenny’s expression was wry, but at least this wasn’t another inscrutable smile. “Why, from a friend, of course. Did you need to ask?”

Hawke rolled her eyes, just a bit. “And what was your friend doing around my home, so soon after a very large building was blasted to pieces nearby?”

“It seems your friend has...strange priorities,” added Anders.

Hawke expected another quippy comment. Instead, she saw true emotion in Jenny’s brown eyes: fear, need, hope. The other woman laid both her hands on the table, palms facing up. Open and empty. She looked at them beseechingly.

“He went there because I asked him to. Because I wanted to bring you something useful. Remember, we friends _are_ friends of yours.”

Hawke scrunched up her face as if she smelled something foul. “Why are you...what does that even mean?”

“Friends help each other. And not just for coin. You’ll be leaving Kirkwall soon, very soon, but where will you go?” She looked at the two of them each in turn, letting the question hang in the air. Where would they go? To a fugitive life in Tevinter, Orlais, Ferelden, Nevarra? Or just to any nationless hole in the ground where the templars wouldn’t find them?

She looked to Anders, but it was clear from his distressed expression he had no finely-crafted exit strategy in mind. Then it hit her all over again, like a mailed fist to her gut. He hadn’t even planned on being alive today.

She forced the thought to the back of her mind, and hoped nothing had shown on her face.

Jenny waited another moment before she took the silence as their answer. “It’s as I thought, then. You’ll go whichever way the weathervane points. So, my offer. I’ll make sure you get to your destination, safe and undetected, if you let me pick it.”

“What? Why would you want to do that?” Hawke asked. “And why would we let you?”

The other woman spread her open hands out wider, but Hawke couldn’t tell if she was trying to draw them in or imploring them to take on some invisible burden. “You’ll let me because I have contacts, plans. Because we know how to get from one place to another without being seen. And I want to help you because once you get to your destination, I’ll ask you for a favor. My friends can go many places, but not all. Some of those places, _his_ friends have already been.” She turned to address Anders, and held his eyes with an entreating gaze. “Warden, healer, fugitive, rebel. You’ve been many different things since you left Kinloch Hold. And inspired more loyalty in those roles than perhaps you realize. Where we’ll go, is to a place where friends are waiting. Will still be waiting, even after the news reaches them.”

Hawke placed her hand on Anders’ thigh under the table and squeezed it in a way she hoped he’d find reassuring. A simple gesture that meant _I’m here, I’m with you right here._ He would understand, he knew how much she preferred to speak this way, without the cumbersome acts of talking and listening that could so easily be misinterpreted. She didn’t have to turn her head to know how the emotions were welling up inside him. She only needed to feel him slump a bit in his chair, draw a hand to his face, shift his weight so that he was leaning toward her. She moved her hand from his leg and put her arm around his shoulders protectively.

Where had this woman across the table come from, with those words, practically designed to manipulate their emotions? Could even a stranger see how much he needed to remember that the world at large had not abandoned him, that more people had love for him than he’d let himself believe? Hawke herself had the gang of oddities that had joined together around her here in Kirkwall, but very few friends indeed beyond this city’s walls. But Anders...how many had he healed, how many had he smuggled to freedom, how many had he fought beside in the Deep Roads? He stretched out in every direction, and his large-heartedness had enveloped her and changed her for the better. Without him, she’d be....

 _Fuck me,_ she thought, _I’ve felt every emotion I’ve ever had seven times over in these last few hours alone._ Then again, her whole life had abruptly changed, she’d stretched her connection to the Fade past its limit and then followed that up by casting with what felt like half of her blood. Feeling emotional was to be expected. 

“Well, go on then,” she said roughly, pushing the words out past the lump in her throat. “Where is it you want to take us?”

“Far enough away to be safe, though I imagine you’ll want to travel onward. We can offer you assistance in that as well, once the task is done. And, I promise you this, it is a task you will want to take on.” 

“You know us so well, do you?” Hawke felt the sarcastic edge to her words, and did her best to pull it back and compose herself. _Time to be Lady Amell, no matter how poorly the role fits._ Sometimes, courtesy was a shield. “You offer us aid, which could bring you much danger. I thank you for that. And in the past we’ve held the same views on bands of thieves and murderers roaming Kirkwall at night. But you’ve given us no reason to trust you.” 

Jenny sighed. “You’re right, I haven’t. And there’s certainly no time for true trust to grow between us. I can tell you that your cousin, Charade, is one of my friends and would vouch for me. But she isn’t here now.” Jenny drew her hands back to her sides, and her eyes darted from Hawke to Anders and back again. Her composure was failing. “And there’s one other thing I can offer. I can assist you in dealing with the bad news.”

“Bad news?” The conversation had sent Hawke’s mind to so many different places that for a moment she had no idea what Jenny was talking about. 

Anders crossed his arms. “You’ve asked quite a lot from us for delivering your good news. How much more are you going to try to get from us now?” 

“Nothing new, I swear it. I have only the one agenda, healer.” 

“That remains to be seen, I think. So, out with it. I’d like to see the rest of your cards.”

A flash of humor briefly displaced the worry on Jenny’s face. “I’m a rogue, serrah. I cheat at cards.” 

Hawke frowned. “Stop stalling.”

Jenny nodded, and cleared her throat. Though she was clearly nervous, she delivered the news in an even tone with no hesitation. “I told you your servants appeared to be alive and well in your home. But they are not the only ones there now. My friend only looked quickly, saw others in your home as well, at least half a dozen people in robes moving about the main hall. And one more, not moving about. TIed to a chair, in fact, and watched closely. A young man in Grey Warden armor.” 

She’d been sure she was out of energy. But the panic hit hard. She yelled as she sprung to her feet. “Maker damn you, why wasn’t that the first thing out of your fool mouth?” Jenny jumped out of her chair as well, moving fast to put her back to the wall. Hawke tried to climb over the table to grab the woman and shake all the truth out of her, but found herself unable to close the distance. Anders had jumped up behind her and he squeezed her tightly now, pinning her arms to her sides. Her first instinct, set when she was a child, was to throw her head back and bash his nose in, but she caught herself. Neither of them had enough mana on hand to set his nose without pain. His face the last time she’d broken his nose flashed through her mind, and she made herself focus on that image until the urge to struggle out of his arms and take a fist to this woman’s jaw lessened.

The urge to yell didn’t leave her, though, and she continued to shout abuse in Jenny’s direction. Inside, her thoughts matched the rhythm of her heartbeat: _my brother my brother my brother my brother._ She hadn’t protected him. At that moment, Carver was the little boy who glared at templars but wanted her to hold him during thunderstorms, not a grown man and a Grey Warden six inches taller and four stone heavier than herself. 

Though she’d stopped struggling, Anders still held her, and after the first hard wave of panic passed she could hear him speaking soft words into her ear. “Don’t worry love, she didn’t say he was injured, just tied up, and we’ll fix that in a trice. Come back to me, Caity, come back” 

To her credit, Jenny held herself still across the room and waited for Hawke to calm, though she was clearly frightened. Once, she reached behind herself at the small of her back reflexively, but returned her hand empty to her side. Apparently she trusted that Hawke would regain herself and not hurt her. Either that, or she believed stabbing the Champion only made her mad.

She had Varric to thank for that particular rumor, though he swore he’d been misinterpreted. And the scar from a stab wound from a drunken admirer that still hurt when she touched it to remind her of it. To be fair, it had made her extremely mad.

Hawke closed her eyes and made herself take three deep breaths. When she opened her eyes again, Anders loosened his grip around her, and Jenny took that as a cue that it was safe to begin talking again.

“My friend returned to the house, messere, after he gave me this message. If he had reason to fear any immediate danger to your family, I would know swiftly. And I can get you there just as quick, once you’re ready to go.”

When Hawke spoke, her voice was steel. “Now. I’m ready to go now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I last posted this story, almost everything in my life has changed. I quit one job, drove myself and my cat across the country, and eventually found another. I went from the most depressed I've been in my adult life to perhaps the happiest. And I endured over six months without a proper laptop I could write on, only to come out the other side and finally pick up this story again. What a difference ten months can make.  
> Chapter's short! I wanted the feeling of satisfaction of finally posting it. The next will be longer, and, I hope, come along more quickly.


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